


A Matter of Clothing

by StripySock



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Clothing Kink, Crossdresser on top, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac discovers a surprise within Jehan's chambers that will change the relationship between them in a way he could never have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Clothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



 

The oak chest had never been opened before and it was from the purest of curiosity that Courfeyrac had looked within. Jehan was too careful with his belongings for Courfeyrac not to seize the opportunity to see what was inside, and it was with the aim of teasing his friend that Courfeyrac had investigated in the first place. Now the old adage about those who listened at doors hearing no good of themselves, only perhaps a little modified,  returned in full force.

  
  


At the bottom of the oak chest there is a ruffled profusion of garments, distinctly feminine in nature- they could be mistaken for nothing else. He sends a hunted look at the door, and contemplates slamming down the lid immediately, returning to the bed and pretending he has not seen this best kept secret, denying the existence once again of his friend’s peculiarities that extended so far beyond what could have been expected. He feels the blood, rich and hot in his cheeks as he keeps looking, pulse beating hard in his throat at his imaginings of how the other man must think, how he must feel donning  these clothes.

  
  


It was with almost an unconscious decision that Courfeyrac dips a hand in and met cold smooth material. He could not help but imagine- Jehan's hard edges and angles hidden for the moment, profusion of petticoats covering him, mystery upon mystery for Courfeyrac to peel apart, a hidden sweetness to reveal, and a shudder wracked his limbs at the thought, as the door opened- Jehan returned early from his provisioning, and regarding him now with the cool eyes of a hawk. One arm held his yield of bread, the other the inevitable wine that had been his initial reason for departure- the social wish to see no guest go thirsty. Courfeyrac could not make his nerveless arms let the lid slip from his grasp, much though he wished he had never seen the contents within.

  
  


There is no embarrassment on Jehan's face though, no thought of flight, or flush of colour such as Courfeyrac knows stains his own cheeks, and it is with almost absent motion that he sets down his shopping and steps carefully forward as though to subdue a bridling horse. "Does it intrigue you?" he asks, and he is close enough now for Courfeyrac to see the careful heat in his eyes, the brief kindling spark of lust, the goaded passion leashed so well. He is close enough that the clean scent of him is undeniable, the curve of his lip fills a world, the muted strength of his shoulders is almost enough to make Courfeyrac wish to give him anything he wishes for.

  
  


"If you want," Courfeyrac stumbles, and then straightens and tries again. "Jehan, if you wish this, if you want to wear this, then I shall not object," and indeed he will not though the thought is obscene- palpable and impossible in the same breath, Jehan’s tall frame, first in chemise, then petticoats and then dress, swathed and hidden, and yet plainly and starkly obvious for what he is, strong slide of muscle against rich swags of silk, the inevitable divorce of body and dress, and no indeed, he does not object.

  
  


Jehan moves closer still, and brings the lid further back with a gentle movement, rests it on the wall, so Courfeyrac's hands fall to his side. "It isn't for me," he says, and his eyes are fixed, immovable on Courfeyrac's now, his words immoral and tempting. "I bought them for you," he says, and Courfeyrac should leave the room, he knows that, should throw back this fish into the river, and yet like some twisted opium-dream the thoughts ensnare him of what it would feel like.

  
  


Now Jehan presses close and tender as he entices Courfeyrac, moulds and shapes him into something his poet's vision can see, and which remains a mystery to everyone else. His mouth is dry, his eyes unblinking as he imagines it, and Jehan with his cherry red mouth and quiet eyes, merely looks at him as though to evaluate what he will say, as though to seize the moment.

  
  


"If you do not wish this," he says, so quietly that he can barely be heard, "then I shall close the lid as of this moment, and we shall not speak of it again

  
  


It is the truth and nothing more. Jehan would will no man to be other than what he is, Courfeyrac knows this and yet still he hesitates, fingers curled around the empty air, motionless and undecided as he considers Jehan's words. He does not seek this in himself, it does not answer anything within him, he is almost certain, heat does not rouse in his limbs at the thought, and yet something stirs, inevitably almost impossibly and yet it is there. He does not know how to define it, can set no limits or beliefs on what it is, and he is caught on the precipice, wishes to lean forward and fall at the same time as sensibly his better self urges him to step back, to let the lid close, to excuse himself from this madness and depart.

  
  


Jehan is placid, impossible to read as with sombre gaze he waits for Courfeyrac's answer, and then as though the silence allows him to press his case, he holds out a hand, warm and large and strong,  ferocious as he is within doors and yet so shy without, and without a second thought Courfeyrac takes it. "Achilles wore one, you know," Jehan says and his grin is sharp edged, the sight that only Courfeyrac sees, now that Jehan has let him in, and that more than anything sends the heat down his spine, fills him with the first prickling of arousal, for it seems stranger more than anything that Jehan should so clearly articulate what he wanted, name it in words, and wait for Courfeyrac's answer.

  
  


"I'll touch you like I always do," Jehan promises, and what he means is evident and clear. "I want you to have me dressed like that," and the words are filthy, impossible, things no man should say aloud, words spilling from his lips in the gentle afternoon sun, that should be saved for darkest night, and drunkest moments when each man thinking himself alone could say what he wished and give not a damn for opinion.

  
  


"Yes," he says, wildly, does not quite understand even now, why, but feels a certain relief, a certain giddy heady pleasure at the thought of allowing this to happen. He cannot shut out the thoughts that plague him now. Cannot stop imaging the sight, petticoats against his bare skin, dress over them both concealing the plunge of his prick into Jehan's body, Jehan taking him as he would, as he always does, Courfeyrac a thing of his creation under his hands, and Jehan should have been a sculptor not a poet, Courfeyrac thinks wildly.

  
  


He leans forward, and there is no brief delay in the settling of their mouths on each other, the tender movements at odds with their agreement and yet none so strange for all of that. Jehan has not been shy in a long time with Courfeyrac, not after he has obscenely stretched his mouth around his prick, bound him tight with words and touch, had him against the wall, been had against the window sill, muffling moans so passersby would not have their sensibilities shocked. Inside here, he shakes off his timidity with the noble freedom of the warrior who returns home and can but here be himself. As Hector dandled his babe upon his knee, free for brief moments from the thrill of battle, so Jehan puts aside his stumbled words and preoccupation with the stars, when he is alone, so close to Courfeyrac that everything must be put away that is not relevant in the second.

  
  


Courfeyrac forgets about it, or rather convinces himself that he forgets about it, but at the oddest moments- when Enjolras is declaiming, when Joly is checking his tongue for inflammation, when Bahorel is attempting to muster interest in a trip to the country where he will volunteer to teach the essentials in hand-to-hand brawling, he will remember what Jehan looked like, what silk felt like under his fingertips, he’ll imagine what they could be doing.

  
  


In the days that follow, Jehan does not press him, just watches Courfeyrac with darkened shy eyes as though he expects nothing and hopes for everything, and Courfeyrac cannot bear to disappoint. He does not know how to wear the flimsy garments that apparently are the current fashion, at least amongst a certain milieu, but when Jehan is certain to be away, he lets himself into his rooms. He has spent the morning soaking himself, scrubbing away dirt and shame, and now he crouches naked at the foot of the chest and with gentle reverent fingers lifts the articles of clothing from it and places them upon the bed, separates them out so he can look his fill without fear of being watched. Like this, they are not to be feared. They are even, he can concede, rather pretty. He has stripped hundreds of garments just like these from beautiful women, worshipped every inch of them revealed with all the time and patience that he has learnt to have.

  
  


Yet still he delays dressing, turns over the items again and again, until his skin grows cold and at last he closes his eyes and struggles into the linen chemise, feels the cool weight of it against his skin, and he can no longer pretend that he doesn’t mean to go through with this. The next item is a corset and he stares at it with puzzlement. He has unpicked these in his time, loosened the laces sufficiently for a lady to disrobe with ease, has even watched, fascinated as those ladies with practiced skill had done them back up again with swift skilled fingers, or lent a hand to brace them, to fold them back into their clothes as well as divest them. It is more difficult than he had anticipated to hold to himself, and he is almost grateful when he hears Jehan enter, humming and then quiet.

  
  


He does not consider what he must look like, awkward linen shift that tumbles to mid thigh- he is too tall it seems for most garments, and Jehan says nothing at all, merely crosses and with efficient warm hands does him up, compressing and shortening Courfeyrac’s breath a little, and something begins to stir inside him, a mounting, repressed excitement. He doesn’t know if it’s the air he can’t breath as well, or the smooth brush of Jehan’s hands against him or the inexplicable thrill of his state of undress, but he does not attempt to name it, merely tilts his head forward and lets Jehan finish and step back.

  
  


Next are the petticoats, light in the hand, not so light on the hips, and Courfeyrac feels all at once both more exposed and less. In the chemise he had merely looked silly, in the petticoats he is something other, something different and it is with a sudden fright that he looks left at the mirror that Jehan seems to keep only for the sake of the light. His face is alien and strange it seems to him, eyes dark, cheeks flushed over the paleness of the petticoats, the cream of the corset that is all that he can see, but he is himself still, and bolstered by that he bends himself to the task he has apportioned himself once more. He sits down on the bed to pull on the open work stockings with the foolish rosebuds, a frippery he would not have accounted to Jehan’s taste, and Jehan sinks down to the floor between his thighs, speaks for the first time since he has entered the room.

  
  


“May I?” he requests, oddly formal, and Courfeyrac nods, lets him help- more welcome than he would have imagined, given how constricted he is at the waist. Jehan’s hands are gentle but firm, drawing them up higher, until Courfeyrac shivers at the brush of fingers on his thighs. “You are redoubtable,” Jehan murmurs, almost to himself, and leans up for a kiss that Courfeyrac will gladly give-- shifting into the familiar, as though this is all that is real. When they break apart, it is Jehan’s face that looks foreign and different, eyes open and revealed, doubt written in the twist of his lip, and Courfeyrac realises with a swooping sensation that makes him feel as though he is falling from the highest building in Paris that Jehan is scared as well. It makes him bolder to know he is not alone in this fear, and he lifts up the dress with hands that no longer tremble and slips it on.

  
  


Jehan’s taste in clothes was doubtful, and this extended it seemed to his pick of ladies garments. Courfeyrac, no keen judge of women’s fashions could still tell that this style had not been in vogue for several years at least, the sleeves were barely there, the skirts slim and draping, not overly full with stiff petticoats, the colour a dull rich red. It hugs him more than he is comfortable with, following the false shape the corset has sought to give him, emphasising the curve of hip, his shoulders bare and exposed, and he shivers without meaning to. His hair is neither short nor long but unmistakably male, and he doesn’t know what Jehan sees, avoids Jehan’s eyes as Courfeyrac straightens it against him, and then Courfeyrac throws his head back to meet Jehan full on. If there is laughter he will not restrain himself from his anger.

  
  


There is no laughter though, Jehan’s breath is coming fast and light, as though he himself were wearing a corset, and then with a quick step he enfolds Courfeyrac, kisses him hard and fast, slides a hand through his hair and tugs it back. This now, Courfeyrac knows, kisses back firmly and fully, holds Jehan closer to him now, crushed against him almost, and the bed is so close, he just wants to stumble onto it, have Jehan strip him out of these clothes and for them to fuck.

  
  


Jehan has had other ideas since the beginning though, seizes back control and breaks away for a long moment. With trembling fingers he pours a glass of wine and downs it, offers one to Courfeyrac who, possessed by a certain spirit of mischief, does not replicate the act but instead daintily sips as though he is at a dinner. Jehan pours himself a second glass but sets it aside untouched. His mouth is stained with it, redder than seems natural and he sheds his waistcoat now, stands in shirtsleeves. Courfeyrac cannot tear his eyes away from him.

 

 

As he watches Jehan, he sits down with his back against the wall on the bed. Jehan affects a fondness for pillows and ridiculous draperies and his bed reflects this penchant with little regard for real comfort- Courfeyrac is fairly sure that the hard thing poking him in the back is the handle of a splendidly decorated peacock fan, and he is distracted by it until Jehan is on the bed, crawling up to kiss him with full purpose and intent now. Courfeyrac can feel his heart beating louder and somehow more obviously he thinks, thumping against its confines as though it will leap right from his chest, and the way Jehan’s hands touch him make him shudder. There is none of the thoughtless roughness with which they usually spar and play, from which they both arise invigorated and relieved. Jehan’s hands trail and linger, stroke soft circles against the delineated line of Courfeyrac’s waist as though he can be felt through the cloth, and when he brushes skin it is sensitised and delicate.

  
  


Jehan’s hands slip under the dress, brush over open work stockings, then onto Courfeyrac’s thighs, unconsciously replicating every seduction Courfeyrac has ever seen on stage, ever toyed with himself, though he hopes he had been more subtle. Regardless of the appropriateness, it doesn’t fail, he tightens against the touch, against the firm press of Jehan’s fingers against his thighs and for a moment he feels paralysed, until he realises nothing has changed, and with a savage grunt he rolls them over, straddles Jehan’s waist with purpose, spreads his skirts out over them both, and fists his fingers in the delicate linen of Jehan’s shirt, tugs at it demandingly, until Jehan has wriggled out of it, chest bared to the air, the hair strangely soft under Courfeyrac’s fingers. There’s a subtle war between them now, no easy solution, a peculiar tension implicit in their push-pull of satisfaction. Courfeyrac isn’t sure what he wants, not precisely. His dick is aching under his foreign clothing, and he knows he wants to be fucking Jehan hard enough that Jehan forgets to treat him with anything of the reverence a lady would deserve, wants Jehan lost to thought, devoured by sensation, back against the bed, eyes hazy and lost as Courfeyrac forces him only to feel not to think.

  
  


He wants Jehan to do the same to him, make him lose every last shred of self-consciousness that Courfeyrac has assumed along with this clothing, press him down, take what Jehan wants, and this conflict weakens his resolve, loosens his grip enough that Jehan takes advantage of the moment and rolls him in his turn, pulls up his petticoats with firm fingers and takes his prick in hand, smears the slick of the head over his fingers, palms him roughly, up from the base to the tip and then back down as though this is a one man war and not a bed, and his trousers are still on, rough against the skin. Courfeyrac feels his heels grip the bed as best as they can, knees falling apart instinctively as his eyes close, and in the darkness all he can hear is the rough slickness of hand on flesh, the harsh breaths Jehan lets out as though he can’t restrain himself, all he can do is work helplessly at Courfeyrac’s prick, all finesse vanished, an urgent strong grasp, almost on the wrong side of too fast, too hard.

  
  


The edge approaches all too soon, too strong, carrying him with it inexorably, and he moans a protest, hips jerking frantically, terminally unsure of what he desires, to come like this or to draw out the pleasure. Jehan withdraws the choice, ceases his caress, lingers for long moments before he fumbles himself from his own clothing, trousers discarded, and Courfeyrac opens his eyes, even the dim glow of the candle almost too much, bright splashes of light still bursting in front of his vision from having clenched his eyes shut so long. Jehan has reached the oil they have infrequently used in the past, his hands and face restless as though he too wavers in his decision, and Courfeyrac makes it easy for him, struggles until his back is against the wall once again, hitches up his _skirts_ and Jehan understands what he is doing, tumbles on top of him until they’re pressed together in no useful fashion.

  
  


Courfeyrac cannot resist jerking his hips against Jehan, feeling the awkward slide of their pricks near each other but not close enough, and the silk of his dress is in the way. Jehan’s face goes blank for long moments as though he is assimilating the feeling, struggling to breath at the gentle touch of the cloth and Courfeyrac beneath it. Then with quick slick fingers he strokes Courfeyrac once more, anoints him with oil until he is wet and ready, and with the perilous ease of a man accustomed to daring, settles himself above his hips. Driven by instinct more than thought, Courfeyrac gathered up the material, drew it back until his prick was exposed, held it there with fingers that almost trembled, folds of cloth around his hips as Jehan eases himself down, teeth sunk in his lips like it hurts much more than he’ll admit to, and all Courfeyrac can do is clutch with numb fingers at Jehan’s shoulders.

  
  


He’s beyond thinking now, beyond anything but the pain-pleasure of Jehan around him, engulfing him until Courfeyrac feels like he’s being swallowed whole, nerveless hands grasping at Jehan, overtaken with sensation, chest heaving as he struggles for air, the corset limiting him until his breaths are so fast and deep, he thinks even a kiss would steal air from him. He can’t see his prick anymore, material rucked up, a flimsy barrier he doesn’t have the will to break down, and he feels oddly divorced from everything that is happening as Jehan settles himself more fully in his lap, hard knees gripping either side of his thighs, and Courfeyrac is reminded once more of Jehan’s oddly relentless strength, his single mindedness when he is set on a course of action.  

  
  


Jehan steadies himself with one hand on the wall, winds the other into the short hairs at the back of Courfeyrac’s head and as best as he can tugs it back, kisses him, a half kiss at best, teeth clashing, and Courfeyrac tastes blood, feels the harsh scratch of Jehan’s stubble against his own. Jehan is looking down on him as he moves, control written in every line of his body, and he releases Courfeyrac’s hair, only to tug on the soft material of his dress, rearrange it better so it covers them both, and now when he speaks his words are more broken, “beautiful,” he says, a word he employs most often for birds, flowers and Caravaggio but seems to be the first to spill from his lips, and his fingers fold back round his own prick, and Courfeyrac tries not to fruitlessly thrust upwards, “you’re being such a good girl,” he says, words torn from him as though by unawares, and Courfeyrac freezes.

  
  


There is a thin thread of shame that he thinks should run through him, but he knows Jehan felt the involuntary throb of his prick buried as it was so deep within him, and besides he is dressed for the part, the ingenue coaxed into sin, he has waded in too deep to turn back now, and he relaxes into it, feels Jehan shift a little, impossible, terrible heat around him and he lets himself gasp (he thinks he lets himself but rather it is torn from him).  Jehan, encouraged by this, is murmuring into his neck about how good he is being, how fascinating and beautiful, words that Courfeyrac will surely blush at later to recall being addressed to him but that for now singe his consciousness, flush him with heat as though his blood is torn in two directions- whether to rush to his cheeks, or harden his prick to a degree he has never before experienced.

 

He doesn’t know what it is, whether it is the words like the devil’s sweetened guiles, the air he cannot reach, the tightness of Jehan on him or the rustle of silk on his skin that renders him incapable of stamina, desperate to attain completion but he is unraveling, spooling away piece by piece, like a loose thread tugged to show the weakness in a garment, coming apart under Jehan’s thighs and obscene wicked tongue.

  
  


Jehan has gripped himself harder, is working himself faster now against Courfeyrac, but Courfeyrac still comes first with a shout choked off by lack of air, Jehan not so far behind him, between them ruining Courfeyrac’s garments. “Unlace me,” Courfeyrac gasps, and Jehan’s tired fingers worked away at the corset until he could breath once more. They do not look at each other’s face, the moment too close and raw, the inevitable chill of embarrassment settling between them, even as they still calm from their exertions. Courfeyrac is more keenly aware of the ridiculous sight that he presents and strips himself as best he can of the clothes before Jehan spreads his fingers briefly against his chest, hand warm against the sudden chill of sweat. He doesn’t say anything but the touch is enough to break the barrier that imperceptibly had begun to build itself and the silence is almost welcome. The sky is dark outside and once more the fan has worked its inevitable path to his back as though by some instinct, but there is nowhere he would rather be.

 


End file.
